We trudge out the side door. The night slaps us with a fresh burst of cold. Grace’s scent lingers in the foyer, almost sweet enough to make my heart stop. I wonder if she’s already gone, or if she’s somewhere close, sitting in her car, refusing to look at the arena.
Does she hate us, or does she just wish we’d disappear?
How many times can you break something before it stays broken?
CHAPTER 3
GRACE
The cast apartments are a cheap hack—Reverie’s attempt to keep us corralled and close enough to the arena that no one misses a call time. Each floor is identical, down to the slightly sticky elevator buttons and the abstract paintings that look like someone’s emotional breakdown rendered in primary colors.
Charlotte and I head up to our floor after the first day of rehearsals. Our shoes squeak on the vinyl floor as we make our way to my door. Charlotte is already in post-practice sweats, her hair in a messy bun. A skating bag bumps her hip with each step. I love how she can make even the most utilitarian outfits look like a lifestyle blog.
I, on the other hand, am still in my rehearsal leggings and sports bra with a hoodie thrown over the top. I unlock my door and turn on the lights to survey the small apartment that’s mine for the duration of Reverie. I toss my bag onto the sofa.
Charlotte follows me in and flops onto the chair in the corner. “So. You and Connor. What’s up with the weird tension?”
I freeze, then force my face into what I hope is nonchalance. “There’s no tension.”
Charlotte snorts. “Right. That’s why I could see literal sparks during the choreography meeting. And why Zev kept looking like he was about to start a fistfight from the stands anytime anyone ever got close. You know they left, Zev and Fowler? They were in the cast too until about a month ago.”
“Yeah, I know.” I pick at the fraying edge of the sofa cushion, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine. We just… don’t get along anymore.”
She nods slowly. “Huh. That’s not what it looked like during prep camp.” She waits, and when I don’t say anything, she just keeps going, “Last I remember, you four were joined at the hip. Did something happen?”
A thousand possible answers rush to my mouth, but none of them make it out. I vowed to remain professional for my own sanity. But if Charlotte saw us during prep camp before they full-on rejected me, I can understand why she’s confused now.
“It just didn’t work out.” My voice coils around the words, betraying me.
Charlotte’s lips press together in a line, but she doesn’t push. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”
I wave it off and channel the version of me from three months ago, the girl who wasn’t about to break into a cold sweat at the mention of an alpha’s name. “No, it’s— I mean, it’s not like it matters. I’m here to skate, that’s it.”
She grins at me, but there’s a tightness in the corner of her eyes. She doesn’t believe me either. “I admire your dedication, Grace.”
“Someone has to have it, since the rest of you are here for the free Gatorade and mediocre cafeteria food.”
She barks a laugh and slaps my arm. “Wow.” The tension bleeds out of my shoulders.
We lapse into a companionable silence. I get up to fill a glass with water at the sink.
Charlotte pops up from the chair and stretches, arms overhead and bones popping. “Okay, real talk: I’m starving. There’s an amazing pizza place a few blocks away. Want to split a pie?”
I hesitate, remembering the exhaustion still in my calves and the haze of adrenaline crash that always hits after a long skate. But pizza sounds like a lifeline. “Yeah, pizza sounds perfect.”
“Awesome.” Charlotte shoves her feet back into her sneakers. “We can people-watch all the other poor souls who got sucked into this glittering circus.”
I grab my keys and pull on my least embarrassing pair of sweatpants. The mirror near the front door catches my reflection: hair escaping my ponytail, face still flushed from rehearsal, and something fierce and wary in my eyes. I look like someone who’s definitely surviving, not thriving. But pizza is a start.
We head out. Charlotte chatters about her favorite toppings and the most disastrous costume mishaps she’s ever seen. The air catches in my throat like the first sip of something cold, but the ache in my chest lessens, just a little.
Maybe tomorrow will still suck, but tonight, I can pretend nothing exists but carbs, cheese, and the rare, dizzying freedom of not being judged for who or what I am.
I swearI have a sixth sense for humiliation. The minute I step into Pizza Palace, I just know something is off. And it’s not the wall-to-wall linoleum or sticky booths. Then comes the swirl of peppermint, chocolate, and campfire smells that blend so perfectly, like an evening hot cocoa on a camping trip sowonderful I catch myself swooning before reality crashes back down in front of me.
Because it’s then I seethem.
Zev, Connor, and Fowler, already hunkered down at a corner booth with a pizza the size of a tire in front of them.
